Sine Qua Non
by Dragon's Daughter 1980
Summary: Several years later, he watches the series finale without her.


**Sine Qua Non**

By Dragon's Daughter 1980

**Disclaimer**: Other than being a fan, I have _nothing_ to do with Stargate: Atlantis.

**Author's Note**: I fell in love with Bear McCreary's music several years ago. This story was written to nearly all the variations of the _Roslin & Adama_ theme, particularly the final version titled "So Much Life." As always, I would like to thank my awesome beta, willowr!

* * *

They have a secret standing appointment, when the city is quiet and all is well, to slip away once a week from their duties for an hour to shamelessly indulge in mindless entertainment. Elizabeth brings the episode (and she has never spilled her source); John brings the popcorn (or the ice cream or the pudding cups, and if it's been an especially bad stretch of days, the alcohol.)

That was the original plan, anyway.

What ends up happening are nights when the hours slip silently by as they watch the remnants of the Twelve Colonies struggling to survive and thrive in a treacherous universe hell-bent on complete destruction, before they turn to deeper debates that aren't entirely about the science fiction show. There are moral dilemmas that must be directly tackled, difficult decisions that need to be considered before they're made in the heat of battle, hard choices about sacrifice and survival that are easier to discuss when they are merely fiction, and not the daily reality.

"You have a crush on Apollo, don't you?"

On the other hand, the debates are not always so deep.

"I do not."

"Hey, I was here when he showed up on screen. I saw your reaction."

"Are you sure your night vision hasn't been spoiled by Atlantis, Colonel?"

"I can see just fine, thank you very much, Dr. Weir, and don't try denying it. _You_ have a crush on Apollo." He points knowingly at her with a cocky smirk before he takes a sip of his root beer.

She shakes her head in continued denial. "He's really not my type."

"Oh? So what is your type?"

"That's for me to know and you to guess."

Somewhere along the way, they fall in love.

"And on that note, I am off to bed."

"I'll walk you back."

"I can find my way through the city; you don't need to come with me."

"Well, you know, I'm in charge of security around here, can't exactly let anyone wander around at night."

"Even the leader?"

"Maybe especially the leader."

She gives him this soft look of mixed amusement and approval while he tries valiantly to hide his bashfulness with a flyboy smirk. It doesn't work, and he finds that he doesn't particularly care if she reads him like a book. They clean up the room, take out the DVD, and turn off the lights before they stroll through the darkened corridor of their city, together.

The next day, the _Apollo _arrives.

* * *

Several years later, he watches the end of Battlestar Galactica without her.

John knows how the story ends for Roslin and Adama.

It leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

* * *

He knows this song.

It's haunting and vaguely familiar, but he can't remember where he's heard it before. It should frustrate him, this massive chasm in his memory, but the music is an aching comfort in the darkness that surrounds him. It anchors him to a painless here and now.

He doesn't remember what happened. He doesn't know how he went from a sunlit meadow to perpetual night. He's not sure he wants to know.

"Dr. McKay, if you can't calm yourself—"

"Don't tell me to calm down! It was a goddamn _milk run_! How the hell did this happen?"

_It's good to see some things are a constant._

He turns, because he knows that voice, and hasn't heard it anywhere for years, except in his dreams. Nothingness greets him. He tries to call out her name.

"John?"

"Colonel? Dr. McKay, back off and let us do our work. Colonel, can you hear me?"

_Shh…just listen._ The darkness around him thins away like fog and mist, until he finds himself standing in Atlantis' Control Room at the hour of midnight. He knows it's not actually Atlantis that surrounds him. It's an empty shell, devoid of personnel, though there is a still-steaming cup of coffee (no, English tea, the kind that Peter Grodin liked) on a converted console, as if someone just stepped away from their post for a moment. It's quiet, peaceful…and he can almost name the song, _almost_ place where he's heard it before, but when he reaches for it, the words flitter out of his grasp.

_Don't worry about it. _There is fond amusement in her voice, and he knows she's standing right behind her. He also knows she can't be here with him. He left her to die; he asked her to die, and she simply agreed with him. He's not sure he can forgive her. He's certain he has never forgiven himself.

_There are more things in Heaven and Earth, John, than are dreamt of in your philosophy._ She's teasing him, and they both know it. They went through so much together that he knows she can read him like an open book of Braille, with the slightest of touches and glances. That was how they worked together. That was how he fell in love with her.

"_It's not fair to pick on a guy when he's down." _He tries to be lighthearted, to shut off the pain he has carried for far too long. He knows the trick won't work. It never would with her. _"Your bedside manner still needs work."_

She laughs at the familiar banter.

"What's he saying?"

"Dr. McKay, if you don't stay in the corner, I swear I will have the SFs haul you out of here. I know you're worried, but you have to let us _work._"

_True._ She concedes, and he hears her move closer to him. He smells her perfume, and below the gentle sway of the violins, he hears the wash of the sea against the city. _But I haven't exactly had a lot of opportunities to practice. _He swallows past the lump in his throat.

"_I'm sorry."_

"Damn right you'd better be sorry, Colonel Flyboy—"

"Dr. McKay!"

"—because you clearly haven't grasped the simple concept of duck and cover when bullets are flying! Or in this case, poisoned darts!"

_It was my choice. Not yours. _Her hand rests gently on his shoulder, and he realizes that they didn't even share this in life. That doesn't stop him from reaching up to touch her. _It's not your fault._

"_That doesn't make it any better."_ Her fingers are warm and solid underneath his, almost as if she is truly standing behind him, but he knows that can't be true, even as he wishes it were.

_No, but it will. _It's the faintest echo of a promise he made to her, long ago. She pauses. _Turn around, John._

He doesn't want to, because he's afraid of what he'll see. He wants to remember her as he has struggled to remember her: alive and beautiful and downright intimidating in the days and hours before the _Apollo_ ever came into orbit above Atlantis. Yet he has never been able to refuse her anything, and so when she asks him again, gently, with all the softness she shared with him when Atlantis was at peace, he slowly turns to face her. Their fingers interlink as their hands slide off his shoulder, and he sees her for the first time in over two decades.

"_You've changed."_ He doesn't mean it quite the way it comes out. She looks the same as his best memories of her—short curls, crimson shirt, dark pants, sparkling green eyes, healthy, vibrant, _alive_—but there's something different about her, something he can't quite put into words. Just like that song…

She smiles, _So have you, _Colonel_._

There is pride in her eyes and joy in the curve of her lips. She looks exactly as he thought she would have looked if she had known of his eventual promotion to full-bird Colonel. Perhaps she always thought he could make it; she had a calm faith in him that he has treasured for all of these years. Still, standing in front of her now, he stands straighter, at almost parade-rest. He has not changed over the years as much as he has grown, and he hasn't forgotten that she was the person who gave him the chance to prove it.

He grins sheepishly at her. _"I swear that I didn't brag about it. Too much."_

She laughs, still holding onto his hand, before saying fondly, _Of course not. How many times did Rodney threaten to throw something at you if you didn't shut up?_

"_Not that many. He's still calling me Colonel after all."_

"What do you mean, "brain damage"? Colonel Flyboy here doesn't have that much to damage in the first place!"

_I see_, she says with amusement_._ Her eyes drop away from his and he feels her grip tighten on his hand. The tone of her voice changes before she even says a word. _There's something you need to know._

"_You're not leav—"_

_No_, she says instantly, without hesitation as she looks back up at him. He relaxes slightly, because he can't leave her again. He just _can't_. He knows how unfaithful that is to the beautiful and loving woman he has called "wife" for over fifteen years, how horrible a statement that is to his commitment as a father to his children, but he cannot just walk away from her again. He can't. _Sine Qua Non_, and the pieces fall into place.

There was a theme song that haunted him for months after she sacrificed herself on Asura, one that he did his best to forget. It was a beautiful, lyrical piece, one that spoke of silent and permanent devotion between two people that existed beyond and in spite of their duties to a greater cause. The last time he heard the song was in the finale of the series, when Adama gave Roslin one last gift before the end. He can't think of the song or the scene without thinking about her, and how their own story came to an abrupt close. He hasn't heard that song in two decades.

The music swells and then fades away at his realization, until all that's left is the sound of the sea. She tells him softly, _I've never left you._

"_That's not true."_

_It is._ She reaches out to touch his face, tentatively, because they've never done this before either. Her fingers are warm against his skin, and he thinks of all the times he's been in the infirmary or alone, when he felt someone looking over his shoulder… _"That was you? All that time?"_

She doesn't answer, but says, _You did right by them. Aiden and Kate are beautiful children._

"_And Madeline?"_

_I didn't want you to mourn me forever,_ she points out practically. _She's a good woman, a good wife and mother._

"_Yes. She is."_ He hesitates before he says, _"It wasn't what either one of us imagined our futures would be like."_

She smiles sadly in regret. _It wasn't what _any_ of us imagined our future would be, but you have been happy, and that is enough._

"_Is it?"_

_I'd like to think so. _

"_I've tried my best to love her as she deserves to be loved."_

_I don't think you failed. Both of you carry so much sorrow from the past…_

He knows more than he sees her brief flash of guilt, and his mind jumps to the moment he met his future wife, quiet and withdrawn, and his eyes narrow as a nagging suspicion is born. _"You didn't…play matchmaker with us, did you?"_

Her hand drops away from his cheek, and he has the impression that she is unsettled by his question.

_No…._ He can hear the hedge in her voice, which is unlike her usual poise, but she shrugs, _all I did was guide two people into each other's orbits as friends and companions. Whatever you have with Madeline is purely the result of your commitment to each other._

"_A part of me still wishes that I had that commitment to you,"_ he confesses. _"I wish that I had gone back for you, or—"_

_What's done is done, _she interrupts firmly, with an accompanying squeeze of his hand and her best scolding glare. _I _asked_ you to leave me behind, my last direct order to you, and you carried it out. Don't you understand that protecting the city is always my first priority? Those of us who made sacrifices don't regret our choices. We all decided to be part of Atlantis; we all accepted that we might die for her, and some of us did._

"_We don't leave our people behind."_

_We can't save everyone, John. _She looks at him sadly. _We just can't. That's not how the universe works._

"_We have to try!"_

_Yes,_ she says, a calm reflection to his frustration. _Yes, we do. But have you ever thought about what happens to the people you can't save? About who is waiting for them?_

"_What do—"_

She radiates contentment, and he _knows. _From a Sheppard to a shepherd of another sort, he understands a fraction of her serenity when she talks about people lost and lives unfinished. She has taken up his watch when he has faltered, and now….

"_This is it?"_

It's his turn.

She nods, _Yes. _

"_What if I don't want it to be?"_ he asks, and he knows she understands what he means. Despite what many have said over the years, his path isn't preordained. She doesn't look away from him.

_I've asked you to leave me behind once already, _she tells him steadily. _I won't ask you to do it again._ She pauses, and he hears the slight waver in her voice, _Unless you want me to._

"_No."_ The answer would have exploded from him if he had the strength to shout, but he doesn't, so the answer is a fervent whisper instead.

"Are you telling me that bunch of imbeciles on a planet in the middle of nowhere are smarter than you are?"

"Dr. McKay, you don't understand; the poison has done irreversible damage."

"This is Sheppard we're talking about here!"

_I'll go wherever you go, John. I'm done waiting. _He sees the resolve in her eyes. _I know what I want now. _She whispers to him. _No more regrets._

He smiles at her, promising, "_No more regrets."_

Impulsively, he tugs her closer and holds her close, arms wrapping around her shoulders, cheek against her curls, and feeling her heartbeat flutter against his own. She clings to him almost just as tightly.

"_Let me tell them goodbye?"_ She nods, drawing back from him, her true nature shining through as she steps back from him. He barely notices the glow that lingers on his hands and arms, the warmth that tingles through his cold body.

_I'll wait._

"_I promise—"_

_I know. I'll be here. We have all the time in the universe._ She smiles at him and releases his hands.

The world dissolves in a soft swirl of light before his surroundings resolve into a brightly-lit treatment area. It takes him a moment to realize the anxiously hovering figure to his right isn't an irritated doctor intent on committing McKay-icide.

"Rodney?" His voice is a hoarse rasp, and he knows instinctively that he is almost out of time. He feels her presence in the room, quiet and waiting, reassuring and comforting that everything will turn out all right.

"Sheppard, you idiot—" His best friend, his brother in everything but blood, is scared and it shows in his voice.

"Madeline. Get…"

"I'll get her here. You just hang in there. You're going to be fine."

They both know it's a lie, but it doesn't matter anymore.

* * *

The silence is somber on the gray, late-autumn morning, the steady stream of rain pouring down on the mourners gathered around the gravesite. Plywood planks cover the saturated grass, numerous footsteps pressing the thin wood deeper into the mire, but no one complains about the freezing cold. The winter-like weather should have kept the number of attendees down, but the crowd stretches out far beyond the blue canopy in a silent sea of dress uniforms among white headstones, steady and stoic in their presence. The devastating news has spread quickly through the old grapevine, and many have come, although many more still are absent.

The visitors to Arlington today probably wonder about the name of the deceased who has drawn so many men and women to gather for such an occasion and in such weather. They can only guess at the deeds and words that would inspire such devotion and loyalty, even in death. They probably would be surprised to hear that, despite the predominant Eagle, Globe and Anchor emblems among the dark uniforms, the man whom these soldiers have traveled from all over the world (and beyond this world) to honor was an Air Force officer. They might speculate on the significant minority of civilians in the crowd, men and women in their best suits and dresses, braving the horrid weather to pay tribute to a man they deeply respect and followed as faithfully as his subordinates did.

The service is short and to the point, given by a woman clad in a simple gown of light turquoise, her voice still strong and clear despite the years as she speaks of sacrifice, loyalty, honor and family. Men and women he has known and served with, red-eyed but composed, come forward as his honor guard. This is a duty given to his own people and no one else. As the flag is ceremoniously folded and presented on bended knee to his widow and children, someone begins a low song of mourning in a language not heard for centuries on Earth. The Ancient words are taken up softly by many voices in the crowd, and it seems fitting, to call upon his ancestors to bear him home now.

A son hiccups in his valiant attempts not to wail for his father as others lay him to rest. A daughter holds onto her little brother, seeking warmth from their mother. Pale and silent, the twice-widowed woman clings to her children like a lifeline as they float adrift in their private ocean of grief. His family surrounds them now, but it offers little comfort in the cold and loss. The heavy droplets pound down on the temporary shelter like soft hail.

As the wind sweeps through the verdant field, where the honored sleep in eternal rest, the sharp salute rings out three times, the commands bellowed and carried out by men he led and mentored for so many years. The rifle shots linger in the silence of the valley before the rain washes the echoes away into the soft patter of water against fabric.

People come to her, then, to her and her children, to offer quiet condolences and unwavering support. They come to not just to say a last farewell to a soldier, but to reassure him that his family will be taken care of because she is one of their own. The tide comes and goes, uniform after uniform, person after person, all coming to her to share her grief and let her know she is not alone. She kisses her sobbing son's head and holds her shaking daughter close and tells herself not to cry at the smothering deluge of emotion that surrounds them. She holds onto her composure until the last Marine salutes her, and the last scientist shakes her hand, and then there are eight left around his coffin.

Her in-laws come forward, and while Kate goes willingly into her paternal aunt's arms, Aiden clings stubbornly to his mother. No one else says anything as son is gently disentangled from mother and then taken away to wait in a warm car. His tears pierce the solemn silence of the national cemetery, and while some bystanders look affronted by the disturbance, others whisper sympathetically.

His best friends, his closest friends, the people he saw as family—only they remain now. They carry their years gracefully as they come forward to pay their last respects. She watches as old rituals of burial and mourning from another time and place are carried out with all the poise and dignity of bitter familiarity before they come to her. Unlike the others, they have no need for words; gestures are enough—forehead to forehead, a hand on a shoulder, a sorrowful smile. Teyla accepts the hooded mantle from Ronon and drapes the heavy fabric around her small frame as he escorts her through the muddy soil of this quiet place.

She gathers her strength to stand, and when she falters, Rodney is there to catch her. They walk together for a few steps before she stops, giving some semblance of privacy to bid his farewell to a man he saw as a brother. He moves on ahead of her to stand at the head of the coffin. They were there at the beginning of the end, and they will be the last mourners to leave.

She listens to the steady rain, the sound nearly drowning out the whispered words that drift on the icy breeze. She chose to bury him here because he deserves to rest in this expanse of hallowed ground, this island of solitude and remembrance, to remind his country of what he gave in their service. This is a choice she feels he would understand, if she could ask for his opinion. Movement catches the corner of her eye when Rodney steps back, and she takes a steady breath before she takes those final strides and stands before the casket.

Resting her hand on the polished wood, and pressing the folded flag to her heart, she thinks about their life together, their children, the contentment they managed to carve out for themselves from their personal tragedy and heartbreak. She silently tells him that he has done his best, and that is legacy enough to far outweigh any mistakes he made in his life.

"He never told me," she says, not turning around or looking away from the mahogany wood underneath her fingertips. "We both knew, of course, but he never blamed me, and I never resented her.

"He loved you," his best friend responds softly, putting voice to a long-silent conversation that started nearly two decades before.

She nods, "I never doubted it. I never doubted his love for me, or for the kids."

"You weren't second best in his mind or heart."

"No, I know that," she says confidently. "We understood that about each other. He had her; I have Thomas. Our ghosts."

"Madeline…" sighs Rodney softly, his hand hovering tentatively above her shoulder for a moment before he touches her. She looks out into the distance, at the white headstones spread out before her in seemingly endless rows of grief and sacrifice.

"You know," she says conversationally, even as tears begin to roll down her cheeks, "he never watched Battlestar Galactica with the kids. He just refused. No matter how hard they begged, he just wouldn't watch it with them."

She knows that her companion is bewildered by the jump in their conversation, but she finds herself talking anyway, as if the sound of her voice can delay the silence in her life.

"I didn't get it at first. Then…" she chokes on a sob, her shoulders briefly crumpling inwards before she gains control of herself again. "Then I realized… How could I blame him? I can't. I know, at least. I _know_ Thomas loved me, and I know he knew I loved him before he died. I have that to hold onto. John didn't. He never…They're together now, they belong together. Just like Roslin and Adama…Just like…"

She breaks down into her grief, crumpling into Rodney's supportive arms.

"They belong together. They deserve that at last."

Rodney holds her as she mourns, giving what whispered comfort he can to a woman surrounded by ghosts. She has loved and lost, and while she has never recovered, she is strong enough to carry on and find some measure of peace.

When her tears have dried, Madeline presses one last kiss to the cold surface of the casket. Then she takes Rodney's offered arm as they slowly walk back toward the rest of their lives, leaving behind them the final notes of a good man's life, and leaving him to his final, hard-earned rest.

As she leaves the cemetery behind her, Madeline finds the comfort of a smile: wherever they are, John is with Elizabeth now, and that is how all love stories should end.


End file.
